Butterfly, Caught
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: [oneshot collection] No tale, no matter how inconsequential or unconnected with the rest, can slip through the fine mesh of a butterfly net.
1. Even a man in utter control of his life

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Horace Slughorn, Kingsley Shackbolt, Cornelius Fudge, Muggle Prime Minister  
**Context**: end/post book 5 (following Voldermort's public appearance at the Ministry)  
**Challenge**: Poetry Quotes and Numbers Challenge, 4 – 5: "I have become another child. I wake to see the world go wild."- Allen Ginsberg / The Long Haul III, Week 1

**.**

**.**

Even a man in utter control of his life may find it find sand sifting through his fingers another night. And the hysteria was swift.

Every day till that, the mainstream papers ranted about the impossibility of Voldermort's return. They ranted about the lies pouring from the mouth of Grindelward's destroyer, about the senseless rambles of the madman who had saved them from Voldermort's plight once before – or, as the less faithful claimed, told of the false rambles of an old man who'd finally passed the age of sense, and a once-hero who'd let his fame clout his head. And those stories had been told for the better part of a year; there was no man in Britain who hadn't had to put forward their opinion on the matter to family, colleagues or even nosy little neighbours.

But that changed overnight. Without warning, the papers one day were stapled – and not just the mainstream papers, but every sort – with the same headline: "Voldermort has returned". And most were accompanied by a photo: of the Dark Wizard himself wrapped in robes and shooting green fire from his wand.

Some called the bluff. They were dead within weeks, if not days. The rest of the world was more believing, regardless of whether they had believed or not before.

**.**

Horace had been extra cautious all year, as soon as the first whispers of Voldermort's return had arisen. He didn't know much about Harry Potter, and what he did know told nothing of his truthfulness at all. He did know though that the threat was too severe to simply ignore, and so he began preparing.

He was a Potions master by trade, which gave him access to very valuable stores in return for making him easily accessible. And that was a problem he needed to quickly solve, though a difficult one to work around. The easiest would be to simply freeze his supply lines and then vanished off the face of the world – but that was no solution, short term or no. Potion-making was what he did, and he needed his supply of ingredients for that.

He put in as many defences as possible instead. He screened everything that arrived. He stared carefully at every person to walk through the threshold of his shop as they shrugged off the aftertaste of his curtain of spells, and started whenever his front door bell rang and spat curses at being disturbed. He'd changed his address as well, just in case: the new one was known to few and told to none. And all that was for a piece of news that most believed to be false.

He simply couldn't afford to take that chance, and when it was proven true overnight and an Owl arrived the following morning with the front page headlines, he was glad he hadn't. Over the next few nights, more papers came: disappearances around corners. Deaths behind locked doors. His heart hammered in his chest every time; it could have been him, _it could have been him_, if he'd been less prepared.

He _was_ prepared, as prepared as one could be for when the world exploded into panic, but even that wasn't prepared enough. They found him, at work, at home – he was forced to surrender it all and vanish into the calm where the panic was slower, duller.

He disappeared into the Muggle world.

**.**

The Ministry was in chaos after Voldermort's appearance, and only the members of the Order were prepared. Sensing a change in the flow some weeks ago, the Order had made a few arrangements ahead of time – arrangements that were proving to be quite beneficial now.

One of those was Kingsley's transfer, which was approved the day following Voldermort's little show. Overnight, the Minister Fudge changed from reluctance to waste resources in such a manner to feverence that his counterpart, the Muggle Prime Minister, was in need of the highest security they could offer.

In another day, Kingsley found himself sitting comfortably in his new job, one eye on his paperwork and the other on the Muggle Minister. And he saw how the panic spread; it took a few days, because the Muggles knew nothing about Voldermort and even less about the magic beneath their nose. But they couldn't miss the death and destruction that exploded like a rippling wave once the need for secrecy was obliterated. They couldn't miss the bridge collapse, or the fog that was spreading like wildfire. They couldn't miss a healthy woman dying behind locked doors. They couldn't miss a chemist being blown sky high, or the hundreds of people suddenly missing, hospitalised or dead without cause.

Kingsley, on assignment to protect the Muggle Minister behind the desk, was far from most of that chaos. No-one else knew Amelia. They didn't know the Dementors. Or the killing curses that could kill without a visible mark. They didn't know the swimming smoke skulls that was Voldermort's Dark Mark…and even if he had been prepared for it all, he felt like a child waking up to a new world.

**.**

Cornelius was one who had almost lost his stomach in the change. He had been vehement in his arguments against Voldermort's return, and the validity of that claim had raised many a problem in the world. One was obvious: the state of panic coincided perfectly with Voldermort's first major moves. The man fed of fear after all, and…well, they'd pretty much asked for a spectacle.

There were other problems as well. People now thought him incompetent: the same people who had so easily believed him before. They said he should have known the truth, should have prepared the world – and yet he hadn't been the first to discredit the claims of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. He'd just been the first to doubt them.

And he had been a fool to do it; an adult fool. Now he was a child, because he didn't have the power to change what an adult could. Within weeks he was made an example of and stripped of his position. Within weeks, he had become what he'd feared if Voldermort's return had really turned out to be true.

He couldn't move the world towards a victory against the Dark Wizard, and the world knew that. He would have graciously stepped down if he could, but he hadn't wanted to believe. They all hadn't wanted to believe – except those precious few who had believed and suffered for that belief.

But what else could he have done? There hadn't been any proof, and Albus Dumbledore could afford that, but not a weak man like him.

He couldn't even afford the tatters the Ministry now was. Or the world outside: people being killed, buildings destroyed – all in one fell swoop now that the secret had been yelled out to the world.

He was a coward in heart, he knew. But even the ignorant mass of Muggles were now in hysteria with impending doom.

**.**

The Muggle Prime Minister saw the change, but he saw it slowly. More and more suspicious deaths began to appear. The weather began to change. The city began to crumble, as though its decay had passed its critical point. Other unexplainable things began to occur, and others turned to him. The opposition pointed fingers. The public demanded answers.

He had no explanation. He simply didn't see how a woman could be killed from the inside of a locked room. He didn't see how a sure-sturdy bridge could suddenly collapse upon its own weight, or how fog could cover places at random in the middle of summer, while the sun shone brightly upon all of Britain.

_Magic_, was the whisper in the room, whenever he fell into silence thinking of it. _It is magic._ The unexplainable. The unexciting. The only explanation when things descended into chaos.

Except magic did exist, and he was one of the few incapable of practising it that knew. And if magic was responsible for the inexplicable deaths and destruction that ran all over Britain, then he was powerless to do anything about it.

**.**

They were all powerless against hysteria; it was too powerful a force. Even the most prepared of them were swept into the panic. Even the ones who denied felt themselves thinking about precautionary measures, and about their worst fears realised.

No-one was spared when the first waves of war crashed into the shores, setting the stage and claiming the first sweep of victims. Everyone, Muggle or magical, heard of the terror that rapidly spread through Britain. Everyone felt the force as it spread.

And no matter how they'd tried to avoid the wave: by denial, by putting their efforts into precautionary measures, they found the wave crashed upon them all with undeniable force. And no-one was an adult in a poll of children screaming out in terror, fighting for the cramped space beneath the beds where they could lie in fear and wait.

No-one could hold sand between their hands without it slipping away. No-one could hold hysteria when it broke lose.


	2. His scales were becoming incandescent

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Harry, Dumbledore, Nagini  
**Context**: during book 5, pre-Ministry of Magic events  
**Challenge**: The Dream Challenge: tornado / The Long Haul III, Week 2 / If you Dare Challenge, level DARK, #993 – time bomb  
**Extra** **notes**: the poems at the beginning and the end are also written by me, hence they aren't referenced. This also reads rather scatterdly, but that was done on purpose. Let's see if you can work out what's going on there. Shouldn't be too bad, since it follows a canon event with an exacerbated influence.

**.**

**.**

_They say a coiled snake is the most dangerous of them all.  
They are incorrect;  
the coiled snake is simply the least confident:  
the one who needs to show his fangs  
before he can feel safe  
with his prey_

_But the truly deadly snakes are the ones  
who are not hesitant, nor afraid  
but are able to flash their scales  
and tuck their fangs away._

**.**

His scales were becoming incandescent, like rainbow-dust blown into a curtain of wind and fog that let nothing through. He basked in it, let the whiplash beat at his tough armaments – because those scales, luminescent green even in the shawl that stifled him.

If the harbinger of the fog thought they could hide him, they were wrong.

**.**

Harry found himself blinking at his ceiling, low and slanting and with grey cracks running in three distinct places – at least from what he could make out without his glasses. He knew there were more than that: he knew the location of each and every one of those cracks: all four corners, near the light and around the edges of the walls with the window and the door. Then there were the cracks above the door his uncle and cousin had slammed a great many times, below the window sill where he'd accidentally rammed the lawnmower in his younger years and all around the window-frame from the bars.

He could map every contour of the room without his glasses' aid, so why had he, for a moment, imagined it hazy and indistinct with fog?

**.**

The serpent's hiss sung within his mind; the grass ran along his belly as though he was sliding along his stomach rather than crawling on his hands and feet. Little creatures scurried about, far from reach – from _human_ reach, but sometimes he caught himself with his tongue out, thinking he could reach out and have an amusing little appetizer.

He would be disgusted afterwards, but in the moment all he saw was prey scurrying away from him like frightened rats. And a rat would be tasty too, half-starved as he was.

Some warmth and dryness would be nice as well, because his scaly skin felt cold and moist with morning sundew.

**.**

Harry didn't understand the dreams he had: waking dreams, sometimes, wherein he saw himself become a snake. It was long and green, majestically coiling under shadow, sun or fog – none succeeded in dimming his shimmering scales.

The green was like his eyes, he realised: emerald green, like the emblem the Slytherins wore with pride. Why? He hadn't ever noticed the connection before. Did it mean something? Or was he just psyching himself out?

Just like he was psyching himself out over snakes. It wasn't like he'd never seen snakes before?

He fondly remembered the Boa from the museum: the one they'd met on Dudey's birthday that had snapped so playfully at Dudley's heels as it thanked Harry for letting him out of that cage. Never mind it being an accident – accidental magic Harry hadn't even known he had. That was the perfect example of its kind. That was an example of a snake that wasn't out to kill anyone.

So what if Voldermort also had a snake? So what if the symbol of the Slytherin House was a snake? So what if the corpse of the largest serpent he'd ever seen lay slain in the Chamber of Secrets?

But all of that did matter, and whenever he felt the cold wet grass on his belly or saw the glistening scales, he worried.

**.**

The scales were struggling against typhoons again; strong raging winds he seemed incapable of battling against. He struggled against it with all his might, even though his body arched towards the sky in vanity. _You can't hide me!_ His body seemed to shout up to the heavens. _There is no being who can suppress my will_!

Harry awoke with the copper tang of blood from a bitten lip in his mouth, and red and green flickering like a dying Christmas tree at the edges of his vision.

**.**

Harry, far too often now, caught himself mid-hiss in his lonely chores. It seemed he was becoming more volatile of late; the contact with the Wizarding World that would calm him was nowhere to be found.

Oh, he got letters. Not like second year when they had disappeared entirely from his life. He was getting plenty of near empty ink and parchment – scrawled words that held next to no meaning, that even a child who could barely read would encompass the entirety of its contents.

He wanted something more substantial. Something that could drive that cold wet feeling clinging to his belly, and those scales clinging to his skin. But, instead, those letters made him feel even more stifled, made him annoyed, angry even. He wanted, _needed_, substance. He _needed_ it.

He tried to make up for it by writing long letters in return, asking for answers. He even went so far as to ask Hedwig to peck them until they bled – and she did come back with blood crusting her beak and his eyes would narrow in on that crust and he'd feel something bubble within him.

It was a small reaction, minute and subtle. He didn't even notice it.

But the snake within him did.

**.**

He was hungry now. Hungry, and feeling anger and frustration slowly build up within. That was food enough, he thought, for the time being where there was no flesh to be found. Nothing but trembling wind and his own shiny scales fighting the whitewash scene.

But there was still acid on his tongue, acid not cut away by the harsh whips of wind and his scales were fierce enough to protect him but still maintain their luminescence. And they really did seem to emit their own light; not even the warmth of the sun could reach him now, as encased as he was in that whirlwind case.

**.**

The frustration grew, and Harry found himself snapping at his trusty owl simply because there was no-one else to snap at. The people he wanted to snap at were his friends, his family – even his parents for dying and leaving him all alone. He knew that one was unfair, and he regretted it the moment the thought passed through his mind, but it was difficult to truly let go of it when he seemed to be getting further and further from the world.

Not even his Godfather was writing satisfactory answers to his questions. They were all vague, without any direction at all. They told him nothing about what was happening in the outside world. Even the Muggle television – made my people who should be ten times more ignorant – told him more.

He was the one who saw Voldermort's return; why was he the one who was being kept out of the loop, while everybody else plotted behind his back? Because that simply _must_ be what was happening; there was no other possibility. They must be doing something about Voldermort, making some sort of plan –

And he knew they were. He had undeniable proof in the form of the scar on his head.

**.**

His body was perfect, without flaws, but his mind was knitted closely to another's and he obediently followed those strings. Or he tried to, but that white typhoon was a constant bother, making it difficult to tell head from tail for all he could see the row of shimmering scales. It never really occurred to him why he would be able to see the head without a mirror to assist; somehow, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing. And the slithering across cold surfaces, feeling moist and soft blades of grass caress his belly, were normal indeed.

If only the typhoon wasn't there, then he might feel…comfortable. But it was there, and it was a constant bother, bringing along with it other annoyances as well. Annoyances like loneliness, like frustration…

If only he could let go of them – or bite the source until it bled its life blood out and stopped toying with him.

**.**

He woke snapping non-existent fangs at the air and wondered if Hogwarts had truly change him so much as to become like a starving beast when deprived of friendship.

Yes, he decided. Hogwarts _had_ changed him that much, and he couldn't deny it was preferable in most times. But not in times like this; not when he felt the distance between them was increasing, like they were pushing the other end knowing full well he couldn't keep up. It was like Dudley tossing him into the pool, knowing he'd never really learnt to swim, even after the lake incident the previous year. That same frustration, coupled with hurt because he expected Sirius and Ron and Hermione to be better than that, expected them to_ understand._

And, when he finally saw them, he shouted until the walls shattered, hands twitching for something to throw and fangs ruefully mourning their lost chance and waiting patiently for another one.

Maybe if it'd been a few more weeks, or days, he would really have struck. After all, who could fault a starving man for biting as hard as he could into the flesh before him?

**.**

_The snake that eats its fill  
is that one  
who tenderises its meat  
and cooks it well  
with slowly dripping poison  
from its scales_

_Instead of tearing the skin with fangs  
and letting others in; no, the best snake  
is the one who nurtures her pray  
and devours it all herself._


	3. There should ever only have been one

**Butterfly, Caught**  
a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world

**.**

**Character(s): **Regulus Black, Sirius Black  
**Context**: pre-Regulus death  
**Challenge**: The Book Quotes Boot Camp, #003 - Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget. – New Moon / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #006 - "if dreams die/Life is a broken-winged bird/That cannot fly." - _Dreams_, Langston Hughes / The Dream Challenge, Creatures - To see a faceless creature in your dream indicates a situation you are refusing to see or confront, but are aware of it in some passive way. This dream also suggests that something in your life is bringing up feelings of fear and insecurities / The Long Haul III Competition, Week 3 / Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics, Broken Relationship / The Storyteller's Periodic Table Challenge, 12 – canon / Poems into Stories Competition, (6) Sonnet XIX: Devouring Time, Blunt thou the Lion's Paws  
**Extra** **notes**: the poem at the beginning is Sonnet XIX: the poem I'm using for the Poems into Stories Competition and not my own work.  
And this story went through way too many drafts than was natural, hence why I wind up searching for inspiration in the challenges I was taking up to define it a little better. Not something I like doing in longer works, but when writing a gift-fic, they deserve the best, right? :D  
Written for HedwigBlack through the GGE. I think it was your Reg/Barty fic that made me want to write Regulus for you. :D I hope it came out alright this time around, but if it didn't feel free to burn it at the stake with the other drafts. Enjoy. :D

**.**

**.**

_Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,  
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;  
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,  
And burn the long-liv'd Phoenix in her blood;  
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,  
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,  
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;  
But I forbid thee one more heinous crime:  
O, carve not with the hours my love's fair brow,  
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen!  
Him in thy course untainted do allow  
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.  
Yet do thy worst, old Time! Despite thy wrong  
My love shall in my verse ever live young._

_(Sonnet XIX: Devouring Time, Blunt thou the Lion's Paws, William Shakespeare)_

**.**

There should ever only have been one Black child. Sirius: the largest star in the sky aside from the sun…and what dark family would name their child after the _sun_? It was an absurdity to even think about.

Regulus was an inferior star, an inferior child. He was an accidental birth: the Black family already had an heir after all; they didn't need a spare. And it showed, in those early years. They were cordial enough, but it was Sirius they focused on: Sirius from whom they demanded things, while Regulus was left to his own devices.

Sirius and Kreacher were the one who lavished him with attention. Who played with him, taught him how to read and got into mischief with him. Of course, their parents didn't care enough to punish Regulus for their misdeeds; it was Sirius who was belted by their stern father and Kreacher whose ears were steamed by their equally severe mother. Because, for Kreacher, there was no difference between one and another in the Black family except of their treatment of him – and, as harsh as they were, the family knew an elf in their good graces would be far more fruitful for them – and, for Sirius, Regulus was the escape he sought from his duties.

Because to be an heir meant to be moulded into the perfect patriarch, to spend hours of every day studying and changing the inner light that longed to burst forth. And Regulus would see the sad and frustrated look on his brother's face and think that, if his brother had been the only child, there would have been nothing to distract him.

He was like a forbidden wine his brother had sipped once, and longed to keep on sipping, except he was the worthless child, the backup they could always fall to if things went wrong but would most likely be discarded before that. And they would discard him, if he continued to get in the way of Sirius' upbringing; he knew that, and he tried to stay out of the way. It worked too, worked until Sirius stopped seeking his company so often, until his gaze began to harden and the bouts of disobedience grew lonely and more in number.

Sometimes, Regulus wondered why his parents had picked such a bright star for the name of their first son. Sirius: the dog star, the one that shone brightest in the night sky. Was it some sort of symbol, that they hoped him to become a figure of influence in their shadowed society? Or was it an omen that had been their unintentional undoing.

**.**

Regulus was named after the heart of the lion, and some of the extended family scorned him further for it. Their family was _Slytherin_, and yet Regulus was a name fit for a Gryffindor. Heart of the lion indeed; to be likened to a lion of any sort was a shame for him and his family.

And his parents frowned at him as though it was his own fault. _They'd_ been the ones to name him! It wasn't fair.

Sirius had been comforting at first, but somewhere along the line, his smile had become harder and more cruel. 'Don't worry, Reg,' he'd always say, calling him Reg instead of Regulus as though the shortened version meant something as well. 'I'll go to Gryffindor first, and you'll follow. We'll deal with those parents of ours properly.'

Regulus was always shocked at the vehemence in the tone, and he'd always splutter a negative answer and watch Sirius' lips curl in displeasure. 'Look, Reg,' he'd sometimes say, 'Do you honestly approve of them? What they say?'

Of course he did; they might not love him, they might think he was a mistake, but they were his parents. He was still young enough to think their word absolute, and he only loved Sirius and Kreacher. He wanted the love of his parents too; he wanted them to approve of him, to be important to them. He didn't mind squashing whatever rebellious nature arose in his chest for them; he just wished he'd had a different name so it wouldn't be so shameful for his family.

He couldn't even wish Sirius away so he'd be the only child instead, because he loved Sirius. Even if Sirius had begun to frighten him.

'You can't go to Gryffindor,' he'd say. 'Our parents won't forgive it.'

But he does go to Gryffindor. And they do, after a fashion, forgive it. They don't expel him from the family at least, which is what Regulus had expected. But they look at him when they say that, as though they would banish Regulus if he did the same.

Regulus is sorted the next year, and he argues with the Hat until it puts him into Slytherin.

**.**

His classmates laugh at his name as well, but not as much as his extended family – which is most of Slytherin, because pure blood was hard to come by these days. Ravenclaws were a little more pitying but more uncomfortable; Slytherin was what he'd grown up with, and what he knew and loved.

He wasn't like Sirius, who wanted to explode out of those four walls. He wanted to be entirely in them, consumed by them until he was one with them, and the son his parents always wanted, instead of the accidental one.

And school went on like that: Sirius drifting further away from the ideal and Regulus trying to fill that empty space – but sometimes he'd feel guilty, because he did love Sirius more than his parents and he wanted his brother to be safe and happy. And he'd beg and plead with Sirius, beg him to stop being so crazy and getting punished by their parents, because one they it'd go too far and they wouldn't be family anymore.

Sirius would scorn him them: call him a snivelling coward and remind him of his name: Regulus, the heart of the lion, the so-called brave heart that should have been a Gryffindor.

Regulus wondered if Sirius had forgotten who he really was, and just remembered the brother _he_ wanted. Regardless, he'd apologise and try to get into his brother's good books again, and sometimes, after that, they could sneak in a little fun together before someone from either of their houses approached.

**.**

It was when Sirius began yelling at Kreacher that Regulus had to draw the line. Kreacher and Sirius were equally important to him – or they had been, once upon a time. But Sirius had changed: had changed drastically. And Regulus couldn't accept the new treatment of Kreacher, regardless of the fact that Sirius was his older brother.

Sirius muttered something about dull paws when Regulus hit him, then struck back. The blow was enough to make Regulus see stars: stars that were painfully bright like Sirius, flickeringly dull like Regulus.

They fought for real that day: punches, then hexes, and the both of them grew more incensed. Sirius shouted the nonsense he'd learnt from his blood-traitor friends. Regulus shouted the words he'd heard time and time again. Sirius used dirty tricks he'd picked up from the Gryffindors; Regulus used what he'd learnt from the upper-class Slytherins who'd seen it fit to "stamp out his Gryffindor blood" from him.

And their parents dragged them apart and tossed Sirius out, because he'd denounced their name as well. And Sirius had spat something about bad rubbish and left with his things, never to come back. Regulus was still panting from the exertion, panting even as Sirius vanished and a small seed of regret bloomed in his heart – _he could have stopped him, he could have saved him – _and Orion Black turned to his only remaining son.

That day, Regulus became the heir of the Noble House of Blacks, and Sirius was struck from the record.

**.**

Regulus was supposed to forget Sirius, and he tried. It was impossible though; his mother always muttered about what a traitor her first-born son had turned out to be with Kreacher following suit. Beyond that, they still met at school, with Sirius giving him a look that could melt a pewter cauldron and Regulus opening his mouth before closing it again.

He was now the heir, and he could feel the pressure that Sirius had cracked under. He probably wouldn't crack; he'd been older, more cautioned, less wild. He'd thought that anyway, but sometimes Sirius made him second-guess himself.

He still remembered Sirius telling him he should have been in Gryffindor. But he wasn't anything like a Gyffindor. He was loyal, sure, but Slytherin had loyalty too. And he wasn't brave, not at all, otherwise he'd have stopped Sirius long before.

**.**

Regulus was wrong. The pressure was something he'd never seen before, never understood…until he experienced it. And then it was throttling, stifling – he could barely think; it was as though each and every decision had already been made for him.

By the time he realised he might've crossed a line, it was far too late to do anything about it. But the truth was, he'd seen it all a long time ago, from when Sirius had begun to change and try to pull him away as well, but he hadn't believed it. He'd had the lion paws his brother had claimed, but he'd trimmed them himself, trimmed them and then slaughtered the beast who'd try to drag him away from that nest. Because that had been the easier thing, the way he could stay where he knew, what he was more comfortable with, and be the son his parents would endlessly be proud of.

And now he'd help create a monster through all that, and his parents were still proud.

By the time he could accept his parents were wrong, he could do nothing save try to write that last, tiny wrong, because that was about all he could scratch with hastily resharpened paws.

Last time, he'd denounced Sirius for Kreacher. Now, he would do the same for the Dark Lord.


	4. He fell in love with such a woman

**Butterfly, Caught**  
a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world

**.**

**Character(s): **Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Voldermort  
**Context**: First Wizarding War  
**Challenge**: The Long Haul III Competition, Week 4 / Poems into Stories Competition, (6) Sonnet 130: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun / The If You Dare Challenge, #795 – red moon / The Anime/Manga Quotes Boot Camp, #018 - "Well, I still love Tokyo... even as it is now. Where else on earth do so many people enjoy their descent into destruction?" – Seishirou Sakurazuka, Tokyo Babylon / The Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #026 - "I am empty of virtues, / You, the ocean of them" - _Do Not Leave Me_, Mirabai / The Bellatrix Lestrange Competition  
**Extra** **notes**: the poem at the beginning the the poem I'm using for the Poems into Stories Competition and not my own work.

**.**

**.**

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
As any she belied with false compare._

_(Sonnet 130: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, William Shakespeare)_

** .**

He fell in love with such a woman, a woman who was as far from the spitting image of beauty as could be, who could have been Medusa had her stare more power than her sharp jabbing wand, and whose words were a cackling curse instead of the soft melodies of music he'd thought he'd dreamed.

The picturesque pretty little woman was such a boring thing: he fell in love with her, whose eyes burnt with an ugly fire that attempted to swallow their lives, He fell in love with the woman who turned the serene white face outside in the night into a moon that reflected the blood that seeped into the ocean before – and he happily followed her, seeping himself with blood until the stain and copper-tang smell would never come out of his clothes.

And he did not want it to come out; the two of them steeped in blood-soaked earth was the most ugly thing in the world, but that was the life he chose.

**.**

She was a woman who did not care for beauty. She did not clothe for modesty, or immodesty as it may be, but because it was a barrier between her and the filthy world. For even one who cared nothing of beauty would care of filth; the two words were entirely different after all. And black was what she wore, of choice and not of habit like many others did, because in black everything could be hidden and forgotten as they seethed until their death: the blood that dried or was washed out both from cloth and from memory, the dirt that was brushed aside by the wind, the disgusting so-called purity those naïve fools of light tried to force upon her – she was a Black, and no amount of white would show itself in that black.

The entire world was filthy, in her opinion. Even the blood that spilt out in her cleaning was filth: garbage bereft of the honour of her touch, her remembrance. She had no love for it; only hatred and contempt. But she did not set her aims so high to only allow herself to be touched by love; that would be too dry, too sparing. She loved only one man after all – no, that was incorrect. She didn't love him for a man, but because of the ideals he preached, the blood in which he washed his followers and his robes to wipe the filth from the world.

But it was only he that could mark her: the skull like mark that marred the upper right arm, where she could reach it easily by pulling down the nape of her robes, and he could do the same.

**.**

She was not a woman one could love, but she was a useful right hand, that Lieutenant of his. Her tenacity was uncoupled; her desire to cleanse the world perhaps greater than his own. It was fortunate she lacked certain other things that necessitated a leader: charisma – that natural thing that drew companions, and the foresight that lead to the fruition of greater plans. Because she was a useful right hand, but a right hand could not move without its master's will, and he desired her servitude, not her opposition.

Fortunately, she gave him exactly what he desired, and offered more. And he was a vain man who thought he could hold on to unconditional love without return. Because he desired no more from her than he demanded; she was a sword and he did not desire to caress a sword so his hands bled. He had more genteel women should he desire one – but such desire were things he had stripped his flesh of long ago.

Even if he hadn't, she was not a woman he could grow to love; one could not love their swords, and she was a sharp sword who would make the hand of anyone who held it beyond its hilt.

He might have found her less useful if she were more desirable. Beauty was the most easily tainted thing after all.

**.**

She was not a woman who wasted time with trivialities like perfume and jewellery unless it was beneficial to her. Because influence was an important thing as well: an important weapon. But she was only as well-dressed and as cordial as she needed to be, and even then she was too cold, to demeaning, to be considered a goddess of beauty.

She left that to her sisters; she had no envy for such frivolities; her robes were steeped in blood after all, stepped in grime and sweat and labour that furthered the goal of the cleaner, purer world she envisioned. A world without the filthy blood she could do no more than sneer at in modern society – if only it were the medieval times where anyone could wield a strong, unyielding sword instead of a pliable wand of wood, and strike down anyone that displeased them. The look towards a woman had changed very little since those times, but that was all that had: she was the atypical woman, the unfeminine female who worked too much like a man and lacked those attributes that others of her species would be proud of.

What was there to be proud of when beauty was such a flimsy, fleeting little thing. Age would cease it, if nothing else; the swipe from a sword would steal it far faster, and then they would have to find beauty in other things, like the blood that dripped from their face without restraint. Head wounds bled best after all, and the mask of blood they wore would make a beautiful thing: lines of dead, empty faces painted alike in blood under the red moon. And it only took a flick of her wand to set up the scene, and an eternity to remove it from her mind.

Who needed more trivial, worthless beauties?

**.**

She husband wasn't bad, as far as men went, but he wasn't the only man she could give her love to. It didn't matter though; he was tolerable, and he entertaining for her. Maybe, if she had never met a man high enough to meet her expectations, she could have grown to love.

Maybe she could have loved more if love wasn't a thing painted in blood. Instead he was a partner for her: a man who followed her into the swamps of blood happily, knowing that one day he will fall behind and drown in there without her, or she will go ahead until she vanishes into the bog and falls beyond his sight. Perhaps. Who knew; they might die the perfect romantic death together, despite the lopsided love they shared.

And there were few men who could enjoy her, who enjoyed the sword cutting deeply into their palm and the blood washing those hands until they were stained permanently red. There were even less who enjoyed the scars carving into their body, painting every inch of their form until it was the ugly sight she saw, the sight she painted with her wand. And there were certainly very few who found the sight as beautiful as her, who could try and paint like she, who followed the cleaning trail with her and trimmed the edges to lessen her load.

It was also true there were few who could live with the woman they married in love with another man, but all three of them shared a very different concept of love than the norm, and it was only he, the man who married her, that touched her like a man in love should. And she let him, because deep beneath the blood they were both a man and a woman, and they needed a different sort of cleansing at times.

**.**

If she could she would wash the femininity from her body, the _human_ity from her body, but it was impossible. She could not simply wash the world from its filth, simply bask in the shadow of her love and be followed by her lover. She was human, and those human needs overcame her: simple needs, like to sleep, to wake, to eat, to drink, and to relieve oneself in several definitions of the word.

And she was a woman, which came with even more burdens: the desire to be touched that could not be rubbed from her skin despite the blood that coated it. Or the desire to be pretty sometimes, to be looked upon and envied instead of awed and feared. To be loved by the man she loved, instead of her lover, or to love that lover…

But those moments were a weakness and far and few between; she was not the typical woman who was only a figurehead for a man, but the sword he held, a sword that could not be tossed aside once its beauty faded. A sword was stronger, slower to dull – and a dull sword could still provide pleasure that an old and wrinkled body could not.

That was the life she desired, the life she loved. Life, like beauty, could not last, and she would enjoy her life painting it in the image she desired: the image _he_ desired – so that when her sword finally snapped and her life faded away into history, that world she had painted for him would live on.


	5. Let me tell you a story

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Death, Voldermort, Perevell brothers, Harry Potter  
**Context**: pre-canon to end of book seven  
**Challenge**: The Periodic Table of Storytelling Challenge, 3.0 An Aesop / The Long Haul III, Week 4 / If you Dare Challenge, level DARK, #679 – deathly hallows / The Inspiration by Shakespeare Challenge, Option C – Macbeth: a rise to power. / Book Quotes Boot Camp - #047 - Why would I go looking for someone I know wants to kill me? – Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp - #027 - "I must be till I am dead/Only a cry" - _A Cry_, Sara Teasdale / Anime and Manga Quotes Boot Camp - #022 – "There are things people can't accept, even if they do understand them." – Arthrun Zala, Gundam Seed / The Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics Challenge – Battle/Struggle  
**Extra** **notes**: This was supposed to be wk 2's fic. Unfortunately it took until two days before exam week to finish it. *rolls eyes* And I haven't even started the YGO context one and that's due…tomorrow?! *eep*  
As for who the narrator is, "me" would be the simplest answer to that. I think even some of the black humour inherent with my course snuck in. Although, it could be anyone taking a look at the Perevell's story and Harry Potters and wondering about death. After all, I don't exist in the HP universe. :D And this was said through a somewhat different voice to my inner ramblings anyway. I guess that explanation doesn't make much sense anyway… you guys can figure it out once you've read it, right?

**.**

**.**

Let me tell you a story. It's one you've already heard, but not like this. It's the story of a man who tried to defeat death. Not conquer, but flat out defeat. _Destroy_.

How can you even _think_ about destroying something like death? It isn't a person: not someone, or something, you can touch…though It can touch you, or me, or anyone. But it can't be touched, can't be killed, or even avoided. So why try?

I don't know. But there are people who, every now and then, do try. Like the Perevell brothers from long ago, the so-called "conquerors" of death.

The truth is though, not one of them was the true conqueror. Though one of them came close enough to be given the title.

Not that the other two didn't try, but they didn't go about it the brightest way. Come on. Killing Death? As if that was ever going to work. How do you kill the thing – since I can't exactly call Death a guy now, can I? – that decides whether a person lives or dies? Doesn't make any sort of sense to me. If he can't decide it – though I guess Death's not really a human we can attribute a gender to – then he's above the laws that govern us humans, right? So he can't be killed, because "killed" is a thing we humans do to each other.

And humans are such feeble and insignificant things when the whole world exists before someone. Is Death a God? Maybe he is; he's above humans, to decide when they live and die after all. But maybe those orders come from somewhere too? Of course, my feeble human mind is just as incapable of understanding it.

And why in the world would someone think they could even beat Death, let alone flat out destroy it. Though I wonder what would happen if Death _was_ destroyed, aka. it didn't exist anymore. Would everyone just live forever? Would we still age, or would our bodies eventually collapse, unable to contain us any more? Would our minds stay as sharp as they are now? Or would they crumble into fine dust? Would babies still be born? Or would the population of the world be set? If babies are still born, would they grow or remain babies forever? Or would the world be crushed by its own weight because of overpopulation?

Though, I guess, most of those have more to do with life than death. But if Death is gone, then wouldn't whatever the counterbalance is overrun that?

But I digress. I was telling you about those Perevell brothers. The eldest one, specifically, who'd thought he could kill Death if he had a strong enough weapon. A weapon that came _from_ Death, no less. He must really have been blinded with the power he'd though he gained, if he thought it was possible. No, that's not quite right. He must have been blinded when he asked for such a thing. A weapon powerful enough to destroy Death. As if Death would give something like that to him.

And who in their right minds would want such overwhelming power anyway? No-one could match up to him. He spread a path of blood wherever he walked, unable to find a challenge. He grew bored. He grew careless. And as the word spread about his unrivalled powers, others began to covert it and plot against him. And, finally, someone stole it from him when he slept and cut his throat. And that was the end of him and all his power, and Death had his way with him after all. Led him on a merry chase in the process too, didn't he?

Then there's the second brother, who tried to reverse the power of Death instead. Thinking that, if it wasn't permanent, there was no worth in it, right? If you die and can come back to life, then what is the value of "death"? If you lose something and then find it again, what is the value of loss? Learning a tiny little lesson that could have been taught some other way? Ridiculous; death is one of the few absolutes in this world. If it wasn't, our entire understanding of the world and how it worked would crumble. Perfection would not be something impossible to reach.

Anyway, this second brother. He asked for something that could bring people back from the dead. Sure, he only used it on one person – the person he loved – but why hadn't he asked for that directly if that was all he wanted? Why did he asked for an item that could bring _anyone_ dead back to life? To taunt Death? To make him powerless, able to restore any life that Death took? Because his ego had gotten the better of him, like the first brother? And so he had his little ring around his finger and the girl he loved a shadow that lurked behind – but like there's no weapon powerful enough to destroy death in the hands of a human, there is also no power to reverse it. So Death had merely given a shadow of life, and the second brother had chased it and chased it until the shadow died, and he died with it, because he was tired of chasing the shadow and wanted the real love he'd once felt back.

But those things don't come back; time is another absolute in the world, isn't it? Though there are time-turners than can manipulate time, haven't you learnt already that those manipulations are taken into consideration already? Like how your future self saved your past from the Dementors? How the world just slipped into place after that, like there was no temporal shift as well? Because that was how things were supposed to work; the time turners are considered in the constant time; it is simply the human perception of time that changes. Just like the second brother's perception of Death had led him to believe the illusion that people could truly come back from it – and, whether for selfish or selfless reasons, that was not the case. That would never be the case.

The third was a wiser brother. He didn't try to conquer death, and that's why I said he was close. Compared to you though, he was still miles away. After all, he hid from Death for a long time. Fifty-something years, maybe sixty-something. The records aren't too clear on that. And once he was a feeble old man, he took the cloak off and surrendered…though the fairy tales do make all that sound rather glamorous, don't they? But hiding is cowardly; waiting until you're old and feeble to accept defeat doesn't sound much like a conqueror to me.

And all these guys were aware of what they were getting into, had a chance. Arrogance, egotism, fear…those things had gotten in the way. Those things that made up humans – even you, though you show it remarkably little to outsiders, those of us who don't know you too well. And fear almost cost you too: the fear you'd inherited from him, your ancestor. But the ego that that made you think you could talk to the dead saved you – because even shadows, when they're fresh and bright, can respond to your will. Isn't that right? You know now they weren't your real parents, your real godfather or that other dear friend that had never achieved so high a label with his name? You might have then, but that was a desperate time for you, wasn't it? Having a meeting with death – anyone would be afraid.

You didn't have arrogance in your hand, but rather arrogance was the whip that struck you down and the noose that pulled around your neck. Maybe that's how, that's why. The reason you, just another insignificant human like those three brothers, managed to do with they did not: walk away from Death and live out the rest of your life with no regrets.

They call you the conqueror, and that's about the closest anyone can claim to get, I guess. At least you did the sensible thing and got rid of that power – but not totally. You do realise the wand is still whole, and the resurrection stone works regardless of the crack that tarnishes its surface, don't you? Someone can come along and collect all three of them and try to be the Master of Death again. Are you okay with that? Do you _want_ that? Is that the arrogance, finally rearing its head? Or is that just the blindness that comes with all humans?

I don't know the answer. Sometimes, I wish I did. I'm a well of curiosity after all, but you don't have any answers. Who am I suppose to ask then? The Perevell brothers are long dead. And I certainly don't want to risk throwing my lot to Death. I'll probably come out…well, dead. And that won't help, because what good are the answers then? Sure, it'll be coming, but like every sane young person out there, I'm blind.

Actually, what comes after Death? Only the old guys rattle on about the next adventures. Maybe I should find a terminally ill youngish guy and ask them what they think.


	6. The sky cried tears of blood but he was

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Gibbon  
**Context**: pre-season, book 7 canon  
**Challenge**: The Long Haul Competition Week 6 / Wishes of the Dark Side Competition, Outer Circle: Gibbon, "I wish I was a better person." / Poems into Stories Competition – Sonnet 129 – Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame / The Inspiration by Shakespeare Challenge Option C – Twelfth Night: disguising oneself/maintaining a false identity / Poetry Quotes and Numbers Challenge - 3. "When people care for you and cry for you, they can straighten out your soul."- Langston Hughes / Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics Challenge – Poor Self Image / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #003 – "A summer's day will seem an hour but short,/Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport." - Venus and Adonis, William Shakespeare / Anime and Manga Quotes Boot Camp, #001 - "Friends are a treasure. Treat them good." – Olgemon, Digimon Xros Wars / Book Quotes Boot Camp, #043 - You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! – Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire / The If You Dare Challenge, #999 – love is watching someone die

**.**

**.**

_The expense of spirit in a waste of shame  
Is lust in action; and till action, lust  
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,  
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,  
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,  
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had  
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait  
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;  
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;  
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;  
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;  
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.  
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well  
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell._

_(Sonnet 129 Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame, William Shakespeare)_

**.**

The sky cried tears of blood but he was just a black streak a passerby could walk upon without notice. He wasn't remarkable: he didn't stand out at all – unless he was the harbinger of death with an unassuming wand in his hand and murdering words upon his lips. Because that was all he stood out for: all he was. Just another murderer in the world who wore black and a mask on his face so he could have a name at the end of the day.

He was a coward and he knew it, but there was no way to keep one's name in a world and still survive. Even if he'd squandered himself: a lump of metal that could have been painted with gold but had instead settled for bronze. Was he satisfied settling for bronze? No, he wasn't, but there was little choice in such a foggy world. If he wanted to survive, wanted to keep his name and not be erased from history, then he had to sully his hands.

And he wasn't so soft-skinned that he hated the thought of innocent blood on his hands. No man nor woman nor child was innocent in this world: that fog had touched them all, stripped them all of their innocence, their identity. Because who was going to remember one of the many families that died in the war without doing anything. People would remember the one who murdered them though. That was just the way the world worked, and Gibbon – he feared becoming a part of that indistinguishable black canvas and losing his name. He didn't know why: it was an irrational thing, because he didn't fear death: he lived in it every day. But he feared losing his name.

Maybe it was because his name was all he had of himself. Everything else belonged to the world that wanted to rinse itself of the blood that was on it and recreate itself from the few chosen that remained. It was a foolish thing he clung to: he was infertile, so his blood wouldn't be going anywhere. And he'd never loved. He didn't know love.

He was one of those unfortunate people who'd sold their soul for friends, who'd tossed aside emotions like sympathy and tenderness for blood because blood gave him company, let him kept his name as it fell from the lips of the man who desired more blood. And even then the company he kept weren't friends. They weren't even comrades; they acted alone, lived alone – they only came together under the umbrella of their lord, and even then their commitment varied. For Gibbon, he didn't care whether the world changed or not, so long as he existed in it despite the despicable man he was – because he loathed to be alone, and he loathed even more to be alone and forgotten.

Maybe, he sometimes thought, of he'd had friends growing up, he might have been a better person. He mightn't have to paint himself in blood to keep his name and place in the world. He mightn't have learnt to say such murdering words without flinching – though, he didn't think he had ever flinched, having destroyed his soul long ago. He'd stopped caring too soon, he supposed, when no-one cared about him. What did it matter, after all, whether there were more or less people in the world, so long as he was there and surrounded by company and not alone?

Sometimes he did regret it, did wish he could be honourable like the heroes of fairy tales – but he'd stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago. He'd stopped believing when he finally accepted no-one believed in him, thought he could become a hero like in those fairy tales. His marks had never been the best, and neither had his disposition; right from the beginning he was written off as a failure, a delinquent. With other Death Eaters that sullied themselves with the same blood is the only place he fit in – and he didn't care, usually, because he _fit_ _in._ What wouldn't be worth that?

And he didn't mind the killing, the tears coloured red from the sky and dying as it watched him waste away some more. But what was killing? Just removing another person from the planet who hadn't looked at him, hadn't tried to help him find a place he fit. The Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, they'd done that and he was eternally grateful.

But he'd paid a steep price he, on most days, didn't even note. Because he was covered in blood most days now, blood of what a normal person would have considered innocence but he just considered a waste of space – because they weren't his friends, they hadn't had anything to do with him…or maybe some of them had, had been the ones to look away from him and put him down. The people who'd stolen his dream before it could bear fruit, who'd said he'd become nothing, no one, and rendered him to this pathetic state. Except he had become someone: out of spite, out of desperation, and now he was the one who kept his name and was someone, while they lost theirs in the many many names that were written in tiny print on the last page of the newspaper every day.

But most of his victims were people he'd never even met, and they were just faces he saw for one moment and then forget the next. Sometimes, they would look pleading and desperate and they'd strike a chord somewhere in his brain, but then he'd remember the hole that simply being around his comrades and following his Lord filled, and he'd whisper those non-retractable words. He repeated them again and again until it was automatic; he stopped expecting his victims to fight back and snatch his hard-gained life away from him – he was the one with the power, with the name, while they were at his mercy. Probably, if he had to fight the Aurors he would lose and die and become just another casualty, but he wasn't: he wasn't willing to risk that, and his Lord did not require that of him – for which he was grateful for. His name was safe: he had companions, and a Lord. He had a purpose…even if it wasn't the dream he'd once upon a time sought.

Few people looked at him and saw the boy he'd once been, the boy who'd wanted to grow up and become a hero in shining armour. Few people lamented on his current state: thought he was wasting his potential by allowing all that blood to erode his body and soul. But it was long since gone, leaving nothing but a walking skeleton behind, and no-one would try and convince him otherwise. Maybe they feared the murdering force in his hand, that force that would kill without thought because that was what gave him a place to belong, and a name to keep to himself and treasure like a mountain of gold. Maybe if they had cried for him he might have doubted his state. He might have even found a true friend and understood the friendship he sought, and become the hero he'd once dreamed of becoming.

He was supposed to be the man who swept in to save the damsel in distress, but he was the man who cut them down instead, cut them down with everybody else. Man, woman, child…they were all the same. All victims of his wand and heartless words he sometimes wished weren't so heartless and would never have been if times had not been so cruel. But they were that cruel: they'd made him – that and bad choices he'd made, because he'd had a few chances, a few tries, to take the harder path and hang on to ideals. But he had no ideals; he wasn't a good man with a heart of gold. He only had a childish dream of being a hero.

How many nights had he held on to that dream, clutching childishly like one did their mother's skirt, thinking naively that his dream would some day bear fruit, that a Pegasus would come riding from the sun bearing the tools he needed to make it come true. What Pegasus?! It was a black shadow that brought him solace once his dream crumbled into dust and the world turned its back to him as just another defective product – and there were worse people than him, though he wished every day at that time that he was better, the sort of person that shined and people looked up to and remembered. He was only remembered now, remembered for being the bad guy, the murderer. The dream of being the hero had long since died away.

The only thing he'd managed to do right about _that_ dream was to, eventually, be struck down by the bad guy – only, that bad guy was on _his_ side, one of the people who weren't quite friends but he'd given them that label anyway.


	7. Show me beauty Do you understand it?

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Death, Life (cameo mentions of other characters  
**Context**: pre-season, book 7 canon  
**Challenges**: The Long Haul Competition Week 7 / The Ten Times Ten Challenge (creature list, prompts below) / The War of the Elemental Quotes Competition – DARKNESS: Sail with me into the the dark. -AWOLNATION, "Sail" / Anime and Manga Quotes Boot Camp, #040 – "Are you looking at the stars…? In the middle of the city…? Even though the only stars you can see from here are fake?" – Chiaki Shinoda, Darker than Black / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #43 – "My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water/ Tends to the pebbles it must run over" - Tulips, Sylvia Plath / Book Quotes Boot Camp, #40 – You must know that I am made of death, from head to foot, and it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you! – The Phantom of Opera. / Plethora of Phrases Challenge, "draw a blank" / Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics – Unrequited Love / The Poemfic Challenge – Death, by Abdul Wahab (below) / The Inspired By Shakespare Challenge – Option C, Romeo and Juliet / The Storyteller's Period Table Challenge – mundane made awesome / The A-Maze-Ing Race Challenge – "certificate" / The Dream Challenge – cherry / Delurium Competition - "You came from different starts and you'll come to different ends.", R: genre - horror; must use words ['journey', 'canyon', 'divergence', 'trap']; a character must die / The Spencer Gives You Poems Competition – "do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas / The Poems into Stories Competition – Sonnet 73 - That time of year thou mayst in me behold, William Shakespare / The Poems into Stories Challenge (Sonnet 73)  
**Extra notes:** mundane made awesome is one of my favourites; a lot of my original work is either that, sci fi (I doubt many have seen this from me though) or fantasy. Maybe it's not the stuff you'd buy off a bookshelf, but it's fun to write and makes for a fun read for anyone interested in that stuff. So I'm happy to end that particular challenge on that note; my favourite trope of all time. :D  
Because there's three poems involved and the different structure, I haven't posted the poems this time around. Feel free to look them up though. :D

**.**

**.**

**1. Veela**

Show me beauty. Do you understand it? Do you know it? Or are you just a being of lust and utter despair, filled with emptiness that holds only material wealth.

You are a very poor fool that understands nothing, aren't you?

Why do you think you were created? I need no company; I have the world, and it bends to my will like water splitting when a rock beseeches its path. I am almighty, mightier than the foolish men you follow and call your leaders, your Ministers. I am before that. _Far_ before that…and eternal. My existence now is proof of that. I saw the four founders fall from grace like poor fools, lost in the glamour of life of blind to the death that approached on its heels. Slytherin particularly was vain enough to think my touch would not reach.

He was wrong; there is nothing my touch cannot reach, for whoever has been loaned life, I am the debt collector that shall cease it back. But I am a merciful collector: I take no pay, no dues. I take no interest, only the life that was loaned to you. And I do not cease a death until its loan has expired, nor do I give, for good or foul, a moment more.

The world was once an ocean, and there is no place that water has never touched. My touch too has graced the entire surface of the universe and its depths: the deepest oceans and canyons, the highest mountains that piece even through the lower barrier of sky.

But there is no barrier of death. And beauty, _life_, is something you cannot show me. I see it, but what human truly knows the value of life?

What human does not fear death?

**.**

**2. Thestral**

Blind men are the ones who live life without seeing death. The ones cured of this blindness are the ones who see death beyond their time; not me, I show myself only to the dying soul, when their voice has slunken away with their expired dues and cannot speak even a whisper at my face. That is what I am: the silent reaper that sweeps in to take the life once given to them back. That is true death, and only the dying can experience it.

But those who see another's death are not wholly blind; their veils are not fully removed, but they are wearier. They can see the signs. If I come too close they can sense me; they can flee…except my reach is far too long for them to outrun, even if they could cross the world in a hair's breath.

Death is an inevitable passage and the wise do understand, but even they cannot completely accept. It is a trap that life has lain, making you drunk on its nectar and filling you with a deep longing for more. I am the one who takes that away; the one who splashes water on that drunk man and is called the bad one by said man. The wise at least make an effort to not waste their limited nectar bowl; unless the ocean that runs eternal, the nectar slowly drips away through the cracks until it runs out. They make an effort to enjoy.

But life to the fullest, as some humans say? That is only possible to the one that can truly accept my existence.

**.**

**3. Giant**

I am not a huge being carrying an axe, a being with the power to crumble mountain stone into fine ash that is swept away by the sea. That is the power of life: the power to create and destroy the world. My powers and responsibilities relate only to the living of this world. The ones who have taken loans from life, loans that need to be one day repaid.

It is a depressing existence; life is far and boisterous, making messes of the world on a whim and being loved all the same, but my only companions are the dying souls and every one of them have cursed my with their last breath before passing on. Even the ones who claim they are ready to die do so: there is no such thing. The bitterness of a life lost, no matter how despicable that life may be, is innate within every living being.

I am but a shadow that no obstacle can stop: like the water, I have more paths to take than obstacles that can block my path. My essence is the sort that can rip the reluctant soul from its body like cotton from a rosebush without a scratch. And I feel nothing for it: I am a due collector, and I am taking my dues with utmost fairness. Not a second early or late from the expiration of that loan. I take exactly what is owed.

**.**

**4. Basilisk**

One stare from me will not render a person dead; if that was so, the world would long have since ceased to exist. Though I am only seen when the curtain descends upon repayment – when the screen closes and the finale is drawn.

What the living cannot see is the eternity that passes from the time my touch dissolves the veil to the time I am able to extract their soul. Like any collector, I give a fair warning; that warning is used far too often to grieve for even the wisest man cannot resist the temptation to despise me so. There is no light to be seen: it is a thing the wise have come up with to try and lead themselves and the fools. But the innate nature cannot be defeated it seems: despite this, despite calling death the light it is darkness in the end, darkness they cannot bring themselves to love, that they follow unwillingly, that they flee from throughout the finite journey called life.

There is not little flame that can warm my hands: no happy soul to smile upon me like the world smiles upon life. Be I the savoir of the thief I am despised, so neither I shall be. I am a debt collector taking back the loan that cruel life has given you, her toys.

I am a servant of life, but still a toy, for even death is created…by life.

**.**

**5. Dragon**

Life breaths fire, but not just the fire they call life but the fires of destruction as well. Hell belongs to life, not me; all that belongs to me is the hands that are a divergent lattice of twists and turns, covering every surface of the earth. I am a servant, a shadow, which spreads upon the surface and its depths and heights, a slave to life.

Even a dragon cannot escape the touch of the debt collector taking its dues. Nor can magic; illusions scatter like Sakura blossoms through life. Legends spring up of people prolonging their lives – but though my hands reach everything, then can only touch a being who's expired their contract with life.

Life is the one that can touch anyone and anything when it chooses, meddling in things and creating emotions like love and grief – but I too am a product of life: I carry, for a time at least, the debts I collect, until they are taken into new vassals, new forms, and their expiration dates are recorded in my book until they come to pass and my touch can reach them, my fingers can form fists and drag the reluctant bitter souls from their body.

**.**

**6. Acromantula**

Death has been called many names. Some call it a thief, but I am simply collecting my dues. That is no thievery. Life is the only thief, giving out on loan with the mutual understanding of happiness and peace and acceptance, then creating pain and suffering and disunity.

And those living beings have no value of life: they are, to it, the same as the mountains, the trees, the seas…they are toys for it to play with on a whim; emotions, all those thing she created, are beneath her. It is those toys who are burdened with such things, who think that life is kind, benevolent.

They think that even more upon seeing the shadow of my face and the black expanse of non-existence that lies beyond it. Youth, adolescence or the old and worn: they are equals to life, and to myself: to death. I simply take the bits of life that have been loaned once the contract expires: there is nothing cruel about that. If it requires an anvil tipped with skin and blood then that is the work of life, not myself. If it requires poison that burns the inner workings of the body, then that too is life. I can touch only that bit of life that is loaned to you: a soft wool that, when torn out, does nothing to the brittle rosebush left behind.

**.**

**7. House-Elf**

They call me a master; I am as much a servant, a toy, as they. Life is the only master in existence; it creates the laws, the illusion of balance. It creates me as well: the debt collector once the little loans it gives out need to be recalled. But who can I complain to; I am the unfortunate one in all of life's creations; my companions are fleeting and fool of bitterness towards myself. All love they have are directed to life and away from myself. Alone for eternity is my abode: it is the drowning abyss that I have been given as my home.

And outside my home, I am only arms waiting in the shadows to take back the loans lent out. Waiting to take the life from a child who's barely had their first breath. Waiting until the still pounding heart is torn from the chest of a forest-wanderer. Waiting until the head of a traitor tumbles from the shoulders of its unfortunate form. Waiting until hunger has dissolved all muscle and strength in a feeble body and even the beggar can still find the strength in them to regret.

I can feel nothing for them, for I am simply a servant following my master's command.

**.**

**8. Nargle**

Sometimes I do wish I could be loved; the illusion that living beings chase must be a glorious one indeed for even the wise to fall victim to it. But I cannot; I was not given that ability, that recognition. I do not have such a certificate on my wall declaring my ability, my permission, to feel such things. It is imagination, a child's dream…and though I am eternal, I am an eternal that does not bear the same gift of life as those which I take from the living.

All that to me is the same bitterness they feel towards my approach. For I am death who looks upon the fleeting light of the living as it goes out and is relit in different candles over countless stretches of time. Just as the living look upon my face and are filled with the bitterness that life has granted them.

If it is life's taunting, I can do nothing but bear it. I have no capacity for bitterness, like I have no capacity for love. Perhaps it is because both those emotions are interfering; no living being has walked willingly, in body and soul, towards me. Bitterness and love: those two emotions hold them back.

**.**

**9. Dementor**

The souls are the unique imprint of every life; they are not the life loaned to them, from life, wherein it came from. They are not touched by me; what is is something that cannot be described to any man or beast. Life created no words for it…and it was life that created everything: words, languages – even the ones it later destroyed. That is life, creating and destroying on a whim.

But, to the living, it has given a boon: a defined time limit that it has sworn itself to never overstep. And in that defined period, every living being has a chance to live out their lives the way they see fit, to fill their souls with that nectar before death, I, comes to collect the dues that are owed. But life's interference still exists, and death is the name that is sullied for it. An earthquake that kills thousands. A fire that burns countless forms into ash. A sword covered with the blood of hundreds; an arrow that has pierces through scores of flesh. That is all life…but death is the name that bears that burden without word, without complaint.

Life can continue on, the way it always has. I follow behind, collecting the dues of what she has tossed to the world.

**.**

**10. Centaur**

The future of the world…there is no future, for life is eternal and maybe one day it will tire of death as well. Tie of the bond it cast upon itself so a fleeting whim would not steal at least something from the world. Or it will tire of the world itself – or tire of that merry dance upon which it leads the living of this world, this universe. Clairvoyance, fortune telling – all of these are illusions the world has created in order to find stability: the existence of a future. The truth is, Life has not created such a thing called a future. The world simply passes, day by day, month by month, year by year, until one day life's whims will bring it further than its knees, will crush its head to the ground and then there will be nothing left from which to rebuilt.

And then life will make a new world that it will enjoy for a little while, and there will be new toys for it to play with, new servants to do the things it loathes, to be the binders of its whims so the world may last a little longer than a few minutes as the humans call it.

The world is not eternal. Life is the only eternal one, and its loans in defined portions. There is nothing that can live beyond its time: the contract is signed, and it must be followed until life bores of me. Things that humans think make them the master of death are only other toys of life.

Those of you who fear that mortal man, he is no exception. There is no exception. Not the Perevells. Not Slytherin. Not Merlin. Not Voldermort. Not even the so called master of death: Harry Potter.

_Life_ is the master of death. Everything else in existence is just a toy of life. And beauty? The roses that burst into bloom before they are drowned by thorns – that is just another thing life has created and not shared.

Show me it. Show me the beauty of life. I can see the life you cannot, the life you squander in your arrogance and fear. I cannot see though, why even the most rotten of lives, the most unfortunate to fall to life's whims, can face me with bitterness.

Maybe I was wrong and life has given me a little bitterness after all.


	8. He was looking to kill a guy that had al

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Harry, Voldermort  
**Context**: muggle, crime AU  
**Challenges**: Off the Block Competition – Butterfly, Extra hard - _Extra Hard: _write an AU! with either the genres western, angst, mystery, or humour. / The AU Diversity Boot Camp, #009 – charades / The If You Dare Challenge, #006 – warmongering / The Anime/Manga Quotes Boot Camp, #043 - "From one murderer to another, I'll see you in hell." – Soichiro Yagami, Death Note / The Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #024 - "Concupiscence, anger, pride, greed, attachment: wash these out of your consciousness." - _Drink the Nectar_, Mirabai / The Book Quotes Boot Camp, #041 - Courage is the quality most essential to understand the Language of the World. – The Alchemist. / Plethora of Phrases Challenge, "to beat a hasty retreat" / Simply Supernatural Boot Camp, #006 – zombie / The Diagon Alley Fic Crawl Challenge, Flourish and Botts – word: missing, colour: orange, quote: "I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings/ and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through." -Richard Siken / The A-Maze-Ing Race Challenge, whiteboard / The Numerology Challenge, zero: write about someone who uses a disguise, "So this is it, then?" / The Poetry Quotes and Numbers Challenge, 10. "When I can feel you breathing into me I, like a stone gargoyle atop some crumbling building, spring to life, a resuscitated angel."- Saul Williams  
**Extra notes:** this AU mutated on me; it wasn't supposed to be like this. The ending hopefully explains it. :D DON'T READ THE REST OF THIS NOTE UNTIL YOU'VE READ THE END! JUST SKIP AHEAD TO THE TWO DOTS BELOW WHERE THE STORY STARTS! Got it? Good. The monster coming back from the grave isn't a walking corpse; it's all in Harry's mind. Harry's the only one holding a gun in the last scene, a _smoking_ gun no less. Ergo he shot himself.

**.**

**.**

He was looking to kill a guy that had already died.

That was the crux of it anyway. The bastard had lived well beyond his time and died like a wrinkled skin emptied of anything within. And this wasn't a world where ghosts came back from the dead, or where zombies broke out of their graves and wandered. If a grave was broken, it meant there was a grave robber at work. If the murders had started up again with the same distinctive pattern, it meant there was a copycat out there.

And yet the world couldn't shake the feeling of evil incarnate having returned from its grave. And he couldn't most of all, even if rationality screamed so fiercely against it. Because part of him had been waiting for this, waiting for the slow happy dream to end and reality to cease him again: the reality that had locked him into an eternal battle with the monster of a man. The world thought he'd won; said he'd won. But his life after that was quiet, as though he waited for the other shoe to drop.

And now it had dropped, and their struggle had begun again.

**.**

The fruitless searching and chasing took him back. Took him back to the days the man had been at large and unafraid, and yet still too far to touch. It took him back to the endless dances he'd danced, each one with him being several steps behind, lagging after the man he chased, had to catch.

Slowly, as the path he stepped on became more and more soaked with blood and bits of flesh from corpses scattered in his way, had to catch turned into had to kill. His job became something personal. His chase became a thing about revenge.

But it wasn't until they finally met, face to face with all the games ended and the barriers cast aside, that he discovered the man who'd murdered his parents and made him an orphan. It was only then he discovered the man who had changed his life, _made_ his life. The man his world had, almost since birth, centred around.

And then he killed him. He won the fight, the war. He closed the case…and with that he closed the forward progression of his life as well, because it began to wander aimlessly in the peace that followed. He chased after no-one after that: he walked, and he caught them because they simply couldn't run fast enough. He sat, because they didn't drag him after them but came to him. He waited, because time was a luxury he had gained, because the purpose of his life, his dearest wish, had been fulfilled.

Except he hadn't, and the man was afoot again.

**.**

The man was the worst type of bastard there was. Sure, the parents had been pretty bad themselves: a whore seducing the son of a rich kid who'd decided to be a spoilt brat and ran away from home, then got cold feet when he got a girl young enough to be his daughter pregnant and went straight back to his mummy and daddy. But that wasn't all: he was a sadist of the worst kind. A man who murdered without restraint, making the messiest scenes he could simply because they were too messy to follow back to him.

He was obvious: he left his mark, knowing they wouldn't be able to catch him if he did. He made a name for himself, a name the special agents worked night and day to stop. And the man enjoyed toying with them, enjoyed the uproar he created, the bloodbath he left as obstacles in their way, the way it twisted with their minds while his remained unchanged.

The man was insane; he simply had to be, to spill that much blood and be the same he always was. A man who had no conscience. A man who feared nothing, loved nothing: only hated, hated and hated.

He who had people to love lost too much to him, and one measly victory at the end of it didn't bring them back to him.

**.**

When his parents died, he was one and had no clue about the world, and the world had no close about the murderer either. They were the first: the first that followed a long period of dormancy where the blood that painted the quaint little cottage in Godric's Hollow was forgotten by most except those who were intimately related: him, their only son and family, and others, close friends. And he couldn't forget; wouldn't forget. He vowed to find the man responsible, vowed to find out _why_, why his parents had to die such horrible deaths, what they'd done to deserve it.

They'd done absolutely nothing. The man had just seen something in his then baby green eyes and decided on the person who would kill him.

And the moment he got his badge and gun, the game began. Another murder, just as bloody and horrific at the first, appeared before him, and if he hadn't been so well trained he'd have been refined to the psychiatric word for a long time after.

But he'd been prepared, though not for that. Not to be thrown into a case like that, but that was his first assignment and he devoted himself to it. He did his best, thinking he would save other victims before they paid too high a price, thinking he would follow this twisting trail of blood and many many after until, one day, he found the murderer of his parents, and by then he'd be too old or too frail and he'd retire to a little house of loneliness.

He didn't expect to find the man before he was ready, before he'd even shot a man and killed him or put him behind bars. He hadn't expected that first blood trail to be the only one he needed to lead him to the murderer. He hadn't expected a man who'd seen his face as a baby and left him with nothing but a scar to be waiting for him.

And he hadn't really expected to kill the man with the flame of hatred strong in his heart, but that was what happened. He'd been shot as well, almost fatal but not quite enough to drop him dead – just enough to put him in the hospital for a long long time after and give him time to mourn all the lives that had been lost just because such a monster had been toying with him.

**.**

They were the same: the murders. The parents he had: the ones who'd adopted him this time, since his birth ones had already been snatched away. Then others: people he'd never known, never met, and others who were the closest to him in the world. They left a bloody trail, and he felt the flame of vengeance burn in him again as he chased after it, faster than before. And he was faster, because he'd ran that path before, because he knew what lay at the end of it and he had a purpose again.

The victims didn't go missing for long; he was on the move the moment the news reached his ears and their bodies were waiting for him. _His_ mark was waiting for him: large, obvious, _grinning_. And he'd grit his teeth and give chase even though the path had died and the trail gone cold until the prelude to another blood-splattering death arose.

The man, the _monster_ of a man wasn't running away. Just like he'd never run away before. He was leading him on a merry chase, and he the obedient puppy dog of fate was following along.

And he'd continue following, because this was what he lived for, what he _existed_ for. It didn't matter if the man had already died once – whether he was the same, or different, or just a figment of his imagination. He needed to die again. One of them needed to die again.

**.**

They met again, and it was the same man _oh my god it was the same man_ and this time it was him bleeding on the floor, a bullet in his gut and a smoking gun in his hand. And the other man's flesh was peeling away to show where the worms had bitten him, where the enzymes in the dirt had digested him, and it was something so disgusting the special agent had no words for it _and he was going to turn into that too_.

But, at the same time, it was over. He was dead. They were both dead. The sky was no longer red but orange and giving way to the rising sun behind them – behind _both_ of them even though they were facing each other.

He'd killed his parents' murderer – the first and only person he'd ever killed, without asking the questions he'd meant to ask, _wanted_ to ask, had to ask even though emergency had stripped the protocol to its bare boxers. He'd needed that closure, and maybe that's why he hadn't been able to live afterwards.

But a corpse raised from the grave to kill him couldn't give him any closure; just enact their revenge. Even if he wasn't holding a gun or any sort of weapon to do it with. It wasn't last time: last time they'd both fired, they'd both fallen. This time it was only him.

The murderer had won. They'd be meeting in hell to settle the score.


	9. He didn't know if the past had any peace

**Butterfly, Caught**  
_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Character(s): **Lysander, Luna, Dean  
**Context**: next-gen, HBP  
**Challenges**: The Long Haul III, Week 9 / The Everybody Loves Dean Challenge, time-travel, Dean/Lysander / The Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics – torture / The Slash/Femslash Boot Camp, #049 – free / The Character Diversity Boot Camp, #046 – acquaintances / The Numerology Challenge, six - mother, father, intrusive, harmony / The Diagon Allery Fic Crawl Challenge, Ice Cream Parlour - Sunset Orange / The Plethora of Phrases Challenge, "to be larking about" / Book Quotes Boot Camp, #046 - Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy. Remember that. – Message in a Bottle. / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp, #041 - "What's hard is that just one of us will be the last /to bear it all and go on living" - _How Rarely These Few Years_, Vikram Seth / The Anime/Manga Quotes Boot Camp, #048 - "I know your life's been hard. You didn't deserve that sadness. I wish I could have done something." – Kouta, Elfen Lied / Favourite Era Boot Camp (trio), #025 - historical

**.**

**.**

He didn't know if the past had any peaceful times: his parents' past, he meant, and their friends'. The past that had been bloodied by a vicious war. When they floundered in a sea that was heavy with corpses and the fluid they bled and tried to keep their eyes on the sun keeping from the fringe.

He knew what his mother had gone through, a prisoner of that war. What his father had gone through, one of the countless Muggleborns temporarily stripped of their heritage. They were taught about it at school, no matter how much Luna and Rufus had tried to shield their children. They knew the story; they knew the truth. It wasn't something that could be hidden.

Lysander and his brother…the two of them reacted in different ways. Lorcan was more outgoing, more vocal. He'd shouted about the injustice until a heavy sorrowful hand on his shoulder from their father and a warm smiling embrace from their mother had silenced him. Lysander was quieter, had more difficulty putting his thoughts into words. Maybe that's why he hadn't manage to resolve himself. Not like their parents who had lived and suffered through that life. Not like his brother who'd gotten it all off his chest and then moved on. Not like all his parents' friends who went on smiling and laughing and making the world a happier place for people like them who couldn't even _begin_ to understand the suffering they'd been through.

And how could they? Their parents were always smiling. Always laughing. Always happy. Even with their souls ripped to shreds inside.

**.**

Lysander knew he sometimes made his parents sad. He can't help it though; Lorcan does the same when he starts raging in the backyard and letting his magic run wild. Lysander's idea of running wild is just a little different. Taking a brush to paper instead of his feet to the lawn. Splattering pages with brown and red instead of gentle yellow and green and sky blue.

He thought he got that talent from his mother, though she'd only been able to teach him a little. When he'd wanted to learn more, she'd sent him to a friend of hers and he'd taught so much more. Lysander had absorbed it all: the muggle way, the way to enhance it with magic, to make it come alive. His scenes of joys and happiness soon surpassed his teacher and became the light of their living room. Like the orange sunset that covered his bedroom wall.

But his dark and depressing stuff, when he was upset, was hidden away in the house because no-one, himself included, could bare to look at them. Like the ones with his mother's body, youthful but broken and splattered with blood, spread on the floor in a cold dungeon. Like the one with his father being herded by Dementors like some criminal, despair making his should-be young face ragged. Like the paintings of his parents' friends, his teachers, his _school_ – when he was finished he would shudder in horror and wonder how he could have drawn such things to begin with.

But he drew them when he heard about the war, and its terror, and what it had stolen from everyone and what they had broken and he just couldn't help it. Just like Lily Potter would burst into tears whenever she heard the stories, or Teddy Lupin would get all quiet and depressed because his parents and grandfather had died in that war and he didn't know any of them. Or like Fred Weasley looked like he was going to punch something (and sometimes did), or how Lucy Weasley would automatically break what she was holding or Leanne Thomas would scribble a particularly harsh line onto her paper and spend the next five minutes trying to coax it off with her wand.

He knew – they all knew – that none of the adults liked to be reminded of that torturous time, but they honestly couldn't help it. It was too horrific an image to them.

**.**

He'd been playing with something he shouldn't have. He knew that; it was something Lorcan did more than him, but occasionally his mother brought something home that piqued his curiosity and he was stolen away. And he _was_ stolen away, quite literally. His house was gone and he was standing in a forest instead. A forest that looked vaguely familiar and yet not.

He looked at his hand; it looked like a time turner, of a sort. It was round instead of the cylinder, slowly spinning backwards as he watched. Was that how it defined the time? he wondered. Once it's spun back as many times as he'd spun it forward, he'd be back in his own time again?

But where had he come? He shivered a little; the forest seemed unnaturally cold, and dark. It wasn't like the forests they'd visited with their parents, or the one at Hogwarts which barely had any trees left. It had been called the Forbidden Forest once; it's not that anymore. Not dark or scary or forbidden. Not like this one felt.

He wished it was Lorcan instead, Lorcan who always got himself into strange and scary situations but seemed to have no problem in getting out of them. Not Lysander who hardly ever got into trouble, and always struggled to get out when he did.

But he'd gotten himself into this and didn't have much choice but to wait it out. He couldn't really help it; he was curious, no matter how hurt he could get from curiosity. Like all those stories about the wars, all those things their parents had had to go through that they didn't deserve. And he was still curious, about where he was, what time. So he wandered about, jumping at every sound and point his wand at every shadow.

Eventually, it found itself meeting another wand, held by another human being. A boy with dark skin and darker hair, with a sketchbook and coloured magical quills dropped in the grass behind him.

He was in his muggle clothes, and the boy, in his Gryffindor Hogwarts uniform, lowered his wand after a blink. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I thought you were one of the Slytherins.'

Lysander knew the Slytherins got a little bit of a bad rap – but not a terrible lot now, with Harry Potter being their head of house. He kept everyone in line…though what would happen after he retired, no-body could say.

'Why?' he wondered aloud. 'Where are we? When?'

This time the blink was of confusion. 'This is Hogwarts,' the boy said. 'The Forbidden Forest to be exact. 'February 1997.'

February 1997. His mother's fifth year at Hogwarts. The first year of Voldermort's return, which had ended with the Minister's death and the silent turnover at the Ministry of Magic.

The boy still had his wand out, though Lysander had lowered it. But the other didn't look threatening; a little mystified perhaps, but not volatile.

'I'm from…another time,' Lysander explained rapidly, and vaguely. 'I was playing with my mother's…something…and wound up here.'

The boy didn't seem to believe him completely, but didn't question it. 'It's not really safe,' he said, 'whether you're a wizard or not. You're dressed in muggle clothes.'

The time of Voldemort's reign was when everything that looked Muggle was abhorred. Lysander gulped, looking around.

'They generally stay away from the Forbidden Forest,' the boy said. 'They fear it.'

Lysander nodded, not wholly convinced in the unfamiliar place. It was nothing like the forest at Hogwarts now; he could see how it had once been forbidden, before the war had ravaged it, mowed it almost to the ground. 'Are you hiding?'

'Looking for some peace,' was the reply, with a nod to the sketchbook. Lysander silently asked permission and was granted it. He stared at the drawings, sparking with still moist ink. Orange, red and blue – streaks like a sunset peeking through dark clouds and forest-top trees…

They looked so familiar, bright with magical ink instead of muggle paint and magic, and a slightly different sketch – from a different forest perhaps, but so familiar…

'Mr Thomas…' he breathed, looking at the boy closely again.

'How do you know my name?' the other asked, before shaking his head. 'Another time. Right, stupid question.'

He sounded mystified still, though a little more convinced.

Lysander was silent. Here was the man who'd taught him how to draw and paint, a child who was facing the horror of his future already. Because Lysander knew it hadn't started with his seventh year, his mother's sixth, when he'd fled in fear of being discovered as the mugggleborn he wasn't sure he was. It had started before then, when the would-be Death Eaters of the Slytherin House had begun their silent, violent assault. The big names of Gryffindor were largely spared, but the ones in the shadows took heavy hits.

'Not hiding?'

Dean rubbed his head with his free hand before bending down to collect his things. 'I would if I could, but that wouldn't last forever. It's not worth it. Even if they torture me to death, or worse, as long as that's protecting someone it's worth far more than me running away to save my own neck.'

Lysander didn't mention he'd run away from home to protect his family. It wasn't the same thing anyway. Not really.

'Do you think it's worth it?' he asked instead. 'Worth all the pain and suffering that will…is sure to follow?' He avoided the definitive; he knew from reading lots of muggle fiction that it could be a disaster if he told too much about the future. And who knew what too much would be?

Dean thought about that a moment. 'If we want a peaceful world, we have to be willing to sacrifice that,' he said eventually. 'This isn't going to be an easy fight; it's worth too much for that. But to have a world without Voldermort to grow old in, to have kids in – heh, listen to me babbling on about kids – '

Lysander felt a tug beneath his clothes and saw the sphere was slowing down. Already. Dean also gave a cry of alarm as he cut himself off mid-sentence; Lysander looked at himself and found his body slowly disappearing, the forest disappearing too, being replaced by his living room again.

He'd wanted to talk more with that younger Dean.

**.**

'I see,' his mother said thoughtfully, examining the device. 'And did that help?'

Lysander blinked. His mother always had a way of surprising him. 'M-maybe,' he stuttered. He wasn't exactly sure.

'Think about it,' his mother advised. 'That was a chance you'll hopefully never get again. Time-travelling is too dangerous a thing. Any small change could offset the balance of this world.'

A world they'd sacrificed so much to create, Lysander realised. 'Mum, was it worth it?'

His mother tilted her head, golden mane of hair falling to her shoulders. 'Was what worth it?'

'Those months you spent in the dungeons, being tortured for no reason at all?'

Her eyes darkened, saddened, but they still kept a quality of light about them that no broken man or woman possessed. 'Yes,' she said quietly. 'It was worth it, so we could create a peaceful world for ourselves, our children, and everyone who follows after.'

'What about Mr Thomas?' Lysander asked. 'Does he still feel the same.'

She regarded him. 'You should ask him yourself the next time you see him,' she said finally.

Lysander decided he would. And that he'd also ask about the drawing of the sunset he'd seen in that sketchbook, because he didn't know how he could see such a beautiful sunset from such a frightening forest. But he had painted one.


	10. Harry is young and innocent

**Butterfly Caught  
**_a collection of unrelated short stories spun into the tale of the world_

**.**

**Characters: **Harry Potter, various  
**Context:** crossover with Romeo x Juliet, AU (Harry Potter characters in Romeo x Juliet world)**  
Challenges**: The Long Haul III Week 10 / Simply Supernatural Boot Camp, #013 – Pegasus / The Insipration by Shakespeare Challenge Part B – Romeo and Juliet / The Inspiraton by Shakespeare Challenge Part D – A Midsummer Night's Dream (crossover with Romeo x Juliet) / The AU Diversity Boot Camp - #012 - written / The Flower Language Challenge – anemone: write about someone losing faith in a war / Broaden Your Horizons Angst Fics – hate to love / The Numerology Challenge – one (someone with a clear goal) / The Anime/Manga Quote Boot Camp - #039 - "When one life meets another life, something will be born." – Cynthia, Pokemon Season 10 / Poetry Quotes Boot Camp #034 - "How frugal is the chariot/That bears a human soul" - _A Book_, Emily Dickinson / Book Quotes Boot Camp - #048 - There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the lights of all lights. – Dracula. / The Crossover Boot Camp - #004 - chances

**.**

**.**

Harry is young and innocent but still destined for greatness, and so he learns from that youth to sit upon his Pegasus and smile and wave and wield his sword if need be. And he enjoys flying; he enjoys the freedom, the wind rushing all about and the city shrinking into the trees beneath him. He loves the warm sun on his face, even the stinging of the clouds as they reach close enough to touch, because they are happy and free and the cries of the earth below can't reach him.

But he doesn't like the weight of the sword around his hip, heavy and sharp and clean and just waiting to be used. Because a sword like that is meant to kill people and do nothing else. It's too sharp to defend without leaving a wound. It's to strong and narrow to pierce without making a whole. It's to clean to rust away into dullness. It's too heavy to not meet its target with a swing once he's old enough to wield it properly.

Harry is young and naïve and innocent, but destined to fight a war with his people, for his people.

**.**

Harry hasn't flown with his Pegasus for very many weeks when the castle is attacked. And it is brutally attacked. His parents' bodies fall, covered in blood and headless, at his feet, and his guard holds him tight in fear. His own sword is slack in his hands; he's still too small and young to use it well, and it's useless against the assassins. They're too fast, too well adapted in the shadows. But his maid is holding his hand, and his guard is big and strong and can protect him.

He does protect him, and the two of them flee the castle on the Pegasus' back. Harry has to say goodbye then, because a white horse with wings stands out and the black ones are gaining on them. His guard is conspicuous as well, but not as much. Anyone is conspicuous covered in blood, and they quickly cast off their outer garments and, in modest underclothes, vanish into the marketplace.

There are still people who love and trust the Potter's rule with all their hearts, people who will risk their lives to shelter them from the army descending from the palace.

And, there, Harry lives for the next eleven years of his life.

**.**

Harry doesn't have siblings; he is an only child and now his parents are dead. But he's growing up now with lots of boys: one his age, the rest older – and even a girl a year younger that looks at him with adoring brown eyes. His parents are the ones housing him; with his hair dyed read, he looks just like another of the family. His maid is there as well: brown hair bushy now instead of in its respectable bun. She fits into this life far better than Harry does. Maybe it's because she's a servant and he's a noble; he's used to living in the lap of luxury instead of the poverty of the city – so poor because the castle steals all their wealth away.

But Harry tries, because he knows how important it is to stay alive, to continue trying to live. But he hasn't seen those free skies in so long he feels those happy images slowly slipping away. Everyone else is happy enough, except him and the few members of the guard that had escaped the initial invasion. All of them are waiting, waiting until he's strong enough, and they can find an opening. Waiting until they can take back the castle, and the kingdom, from the man who called himself Lord Voldermort.

**.**

Harry is seventeen now, and can wield his sword as if it is his arm. His Guard can teach him no more. They can't wait anymore either – except the children he grew up with, all adults now, and his maid. They'd been happy with the way their lives were, the peace. Even if they had a tyrant ruling them, they'd been rather safe.

The moment the dregs of the royal army moved, the hornet's nest was stirred and that safety vanished.

But none of them hated Harry. They all fought by his side, did what they could. Their small peace was okay, but they knew Harry's fight was towards the greater peace, towards the kingdom he'd lost, the innocent court that had been so cruelly slaughtered.

**.**

Harry sometimes doesn't want to fight, but he knows he has to. The entire kingdom is depending on him to free them from their oppression. His ancestors are counting on him to do the same. His _parents_ are counting on him to do the same. So he fights. He spills blood. He kills. He slowly pushes his way towards the castle, and the man who'd stolen it.

He doesn't remember much of the once peaceful kingdom, the kingdom his parents had ruled. He only really remembers the skies he'd flown with hiss dear Pegasus. He wondered where the Pegasus now was. In the forests at the edge of the kingdom maybe. Or had he been caught and turned black by the army of Lord Voldermot.

It's a depressing thought, and things only become more depressing as he sees people die all around him. It's not the first time; he'd seem people die around him when the castle had been attacked and his parents killed, but he'd been so young then the other deaths hadn't left a lasting impression. Like the parents of his maid. Like all the other guard members. Like countless Pegasus shot down or converted that night.

But now he's seeing friends die. People he grew up with. People who were always in the shadows. Innocent people who just wanted a peaceful life.

Sometimes he wonders if it's worth fighting.

**.**

Fred is dead. Fred is one of the red haired boys who are – were – like brothers to him. The family that had housed him, cared for him, for eleven years. And now one of them is dead.

Harry cries on his own, in the flower field. He cries harder than he did when he lost his parents, because this death is so near to him, and so close. It shakes him – he almost things Lord Voldermort had the boy killed on purpose, because he knew how close the family had gotten to him.

It almost robbed him of his hope, his will to fight. Some of them had been the same: silent, lifeless save the tears that streamed down their cheeks. The younger ones. But the elder ones were wiser. They fought on, and Harry knew, seeing them, that he had to keep on fighting too.

**.**

They keep fighting, and they break into the castle, through the army of darkness – the self-proclaimed Death Eaters. They are difficult to fight, because each one of them has killed someone important, someone precious. But they are all taken down, taken revenge on – and the last of them is the murderer of Fred, that cackling woman Fred's mother takes down.

Harry goes alone to the throne room, sees Lord Voldermort on the throne. It's the first time they've met face to face, but somehow Harry feels he recognises that person. He doesn't care though; he's beyond hating now. He can't hate; it won't bring anyone, or anything, back. All he can do is win back his chair and then fix the world, free the people.

Even if there'd been a silent peace, the people were still starved, still oppressed.

**.**

He kills Lord Voldermort, running him through with his sword, and that's almost the end of the matter. The support of the world is still fragile, as is its economical state. His duty pulls him in two different directions; it is his blood the tree needs to keep the world erect, but his leadership the kingdom needs to straighten itself out again.

But when Death comes and offers his hand to him, he cannot refuse. He knows the people can find other queens and kings – have found other queens and kings: his brave and strong maid, and the youngest of the boys he'd grown up with, that had fallen in love along the way. He leaves the kingdom to them; he gives his life force to the tree that holds up the world, and he's only a little sad because he didn't find someone he could love forever in that world.

He never did see his Pegasus again, or share a kiss with anyone. But that's also okay, he thinks. This way, he can say goodbye to everyone and wish them the best. This way, he can hold the world up for eternity, where the wind played with him and the sun smiled and warmed his cheeks and the clouds poked and prodded.


End file.
